


Perception

by ancalime8301



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Blindness, Community: shkinkmeme, Deaf Character, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-02
Updated: 2011-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:35:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes is injured during a case and must cope with the possibility he may never fully regain his hearing or sight. Watson cares for him and must cope with the fact that he has feelings for Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Восприятие](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11939979) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Written for the shkinkmeme [prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/shkinkmeme/8789.html?thread=17551957#t17551957): After an experiment/a case gone wrong, Holmes temporarily loses both his hearing and eyesight. He can only communicate by touch and can only bear to be touched by Watson. Cue major hurt/comfort and eventual Holmes/Watson. (Book or BBC!verse preferred.)
> 
> 29 Aug 2017: Currently being translated into Russian by [Little_Unicorn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn): [Восприятие](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11939979).

Any debate over which dilapidated building was most likely to hold their quarry was summarily ended by an explosion that rocked the railyard. Watson and Lestrade exchanged a horrified look before hurrying to the flaming boxcar, tailed by the men Lestrade had brought to assist Mr. Holmes in arresting a pair of thieves. Holmes was lying several paces from the fiery wreckage, seemingly thrown there by the force of the blast, and Watson hurried to his side while the Yarders dealt with the rest of the mess.

Holmes' head was mere inches from the first of a pair of rails running parallel to the siding that housed the boxcar. He had his hands over his face and was curled on his side, the very picture of misery. Watson patted him on the shoulder reassuringly. "What happened, old chap?"

Holmes stiffened but did not answer. Watson coaxed him to lie on his back, then tried to remove Holmes' hands from his face. Holmes resisted him, but Watson was able to see that he had suffered mild burns on his face. Watson frowned; burns were something he wasn't readily equipped to handle with just his medical bag. All he could do was dampen a cloth with tepid water and press it to the parts of Holmes' face that his hands didn't cover.

When he felt the cloth touch him, Holmes twitched in surprise, but he quickly caught on and soon wrangled control of the cloth away from Watson, spreading it out to cover as much of his face as it could. "Watson?" he ventured hesitantly, his voice just a little too loud.

"Yes, Holmes?" Watson answered patiently as he checked the rest of Holmes' body for any serious injuries and found nothing save a lump on the back of Holmes' head--perhaps he had struck the rail.

"Watson?" Holmes repeated, more loudly.

Watson's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Holmes? What's the matter?"

"Watson?" His tone was almost frantic, and one hand left his face to flail outward, searching the air around him.

Watson took the flailing hand and held it between both of his own; Holmes calmed immediately. "Watson . . ." he said, his voice uncharacteristically tremulous.

"Where else are you hurt?" Watson pressed him, but Holmes still did not reply, his hand trembling. Then Watson had a horrible thought. "Holmes, can you hear me?"

Silence followed his query. There was no blood coming from Holmes' ears, but the light was insufficient for the use of the auriscope. Determining what was wrong with Holmes' hearing would have to wait.

Watson turned his attention to Holmes' face, setting Holmes' hand down and attempting to lift the cloth so he could better assess the damage. Holmes let him, this time, but kept his eyes closed. Watson was relieved to confirm that the burns were minor, merely flushing Holmes' skin with redness. He carefully pried open Holmes' eyelids--even they were tinged pink--and reassured himself that Holmes' eyes looked to be undamaged.

Holmes blinked a few times, as if reassured it was safe to do so, then frowned. "Why can't I see?"

Watson's heart sank. First Holmes cannot hear, and now he cannot see? Heaven help them both.

"Watson! Answer me, man! Why won't you speak to me?" He reached for where Watson had been, and clutched whatever fabric he found, which happened to be Watson's coat sleeve.

Watson took one of Holmes' hands and held it against his throat as he said, "I have been speaking to you, Holmes."

Holmes' sightless eyes widened in horror as he felt the vibration and realized what it meant. "All I hear is a roaring, like an explosion, or a large fire," he murmured helplessly. "Watson, you must take me home." Watson began to object, but Holmes didn't need to see or hear him to know what he would say. "No, no hospitals. If you insist upon specialists, they will come to Baker Street. We can afford it."

It was a small consolation that Holmes had lost none of his masterful personality in the accident that had deprived him of two of his senses. Watson gently urged him to sit up, then helped him stand. Holmes swayed on his feet and might have fallen if Lestrade had not been approaching and grasped his other arm to keep him steady. Holmes, however, flinched away from the unexpected touch and collided with Watson, nearly knocking him over, then fell to his knees, breathing heavily with his head bowed.

Lestrade moved to help again, but Watson stopped him. "It would be better if you would secure us a cab."

"Of course, Doctor," he said, glancing quizzically at Holmes before departing.

Watson patted Holmes' shoulder, then took his arm and guided him back up. Holmes was quite unsteady on his feet and seemed nauseated, but he put his arm around Watson's shoulders and allowed himself to be led toward the road. Getting him into the cab was a challenge; Watson had to use his cane to nudge Holmes' leg high enough for him to find the step, and even then he almost missed it. He fell onto the seat rather than sitting on it, and pressed himself unusually close to Watson when the cab began moving.

Getting Holmes out of the cab was also difficult, though at least gravity worked in his favor, even if it did mean that he slumped quite heavily against Watson once he found the ground. The doorjamb was an unexpected obstacle, but once Watson guided Holmes to the stairs he could manage those well enough, so long as he held on to the banister for dear life. Once at the top, everything seemed to catch up with him and he vomited on the carpet just in front of their sitting room door. Even on hands and knees he was shaking; Watson wished desperately there was more he could do.

Watson settled Holmes on the settee so he could lie down to help the vertigo and, after notifying Mrs. Hudson of the mess on the carpet, he took the time to carefully examine Holmes' ears. He would have to obtain a specialist's opinion on Holmes' sight, but this, at least, he could investigate for himself.

He used several successively brighter light sources in conjunction with the auriscope, hoping that he wasn't seeing correctly, but they only confirmed what he initially saw: the explosion had ruptured both of Holmes' tympanic membranes. Only time would tell how well they might heal and, correspondingly, restore his hearing.

"What's the diagnosis? Will I hear again?" Holmes asked flippantly but couldn't hide his evident anxiety over the answer to that question.

Watson took Holmes' hand and held it against his shoulder so Holmes could feel him shrug.

Holmes swallowed heavily. "How long until we know for sure? Days?"

Watson held Holmes' hand against his cheek so Holmes felt him shake his head.

"Weeks?"

A hesitant nod.

"Months?"

A more definite nod.

"Weeks or months," Holmes said morosely. "And my sight?"

A shrug, and Watson touched the lump on the back of Holmes' head.

"I see." Holmes paused, considering what he'd just said. "That phrase is quite unsuitable. Will you be calling a specialist?"

A nod.

When Holmes asked nothing further and pulled his hand away, Watson took it as a request to be left in peace for a while. Holmes no doubt had a great deal of thinking to do.

Watson rather thought the remaining hours of the afternoon dragged by, and could only wonder how Holmes perceived time without the usual cues. For his part, he started passing the time with reading the papers, but found himself frequently turning to discuss some point with Holmes, only to draw up short as he remembered that Holmes could not hear him. Sometimes he even spoke to the room before recalling that he was, at present, talking to himself.

Every so often he rose from his chair and shook Holmes' shoulder to be certain he wasn't sleeping. Holmes mumbled aggravatedly the first few times; on the fourth occasion, he snapped, "Leave me be! I do not think I could sleep even if I tried."

Watson mixed a dose of headache powder into a glass of water, then took the glass and the packet to Holmes. As expected, when Watson tried to urge him to sit up, a growled "What do you want now?" was the response. Watson handed Holmes the paper packet to him, and Holmes felt it with both hands, his brow furrowed as he tried to determine what it was. When Watson tapped his hand with the glass, his expression cleared. "Oh. Thank you." Holmes was not quite so grumpy after that.

When Mrs. Hudson brought dinner up, Holmes refused to eat. Watson did not try to force the issue, recognizing that Holmes' claim of not feeling up to it was likely quite true. He did hand him two pieces of toast, however, and tried to insinuate that dire consequences would result if Holmes did not eat them. His message may not have been clear, but Holmes did eat the toast.

Soon after dinner, Watson proposed that they turn in by bringing Holmes' nightshirt out for Holmes to feel. Holmes quickly agreed. Watson helped him to the bathroom--though Holmes was quite insistent upon doing his business by himself--then escorted him to his bedroom. Holmes was still not certain of his steps or able to stand in place for long before losing his balance and stumbling; Watson wondered if this would continue until his ears were fully healed, or if he would adjust at some point and be able to conduct himself under his own power.

Once Holmes was tucked in bed and had been given a mild sedative to help him sleep, Watson turned to leave. Holmes caught his arm and pleaded, "Please, don't go." Watson patted Holmes' hand, then tried to pull away again. "No, please. The darkness and the sound . . . I think I will go mad."

Watson nodded, though Holmes couldn't see him. He took Holmes' hand, guiding him first to feel Watson's shirtsleeve, then Holmes' nightshirt, then squeezed his hand reassuringly. He had to repeat the sequence before Holmes said hesitantly, "You will change, then return?" Watson nodded against Holmes' hand, and Holmes let go of him. "All right."

He returned as quickly as he was able and slipped into the empty side of the bed; Holmes slid nearer to him as soon as he stopped moving. Watson closed his eyes and pondered how having someone near might help when one could not see or hear them.

After a few moments where all he could focus on was the sound of Holmes breathing, the rustle of the sheets under them, the distant noises of the metropolis settling down for the night, he thought he understood. You do not need to hear someone breathe when you can feel their exhalations ghosting across your skin. You do not need to see someone next to you when you can feel the warmth of their body, the tentative press of their leg against your own, the dip in the mattress beneath their weight.

Holmes quickly fell asleep, but Watson spent a while thinking how he might use Holmes' remaining senses to reassure him, to communicate with him, to keep him from falling into a mood now that he had fewer stimuli to keep his mind occupied.

~~

Watson found it disconcerting to wake in Holmes' bed, but soon had other things to concern him, as Holmes still suffered from severe vertigo if he sat up too quickly or if he even attempted to stand. They were able to get him dressed, but he remained abed while Watson set out to consult with the specialist several of his peers recommended in response to telegrams he'd sent out the previous afternoon.

Doctor Hamilton was quite agreeable to paying Holmes a visit, and did what he could to examine Holmes, though Holmes' inability to answer any questions and his tendency to shy away from any touch other than Watson's made his assessment somewhat more challenging. In the end, he could only confirm that the eyes themselves were undamaged, thus the disruption of sight originated inside the brain. It was within reason that the problem would resolve itself when his head injury healed, but only time would tell. He recommended a blindfold for Holmes so he would not strain himself as his vision returned (if it returned), and rest and quiet to heal.

After the doctor left, Holmes asked Watson questions until he seemed to understand that nothing could be done but wait--something he was not very good at, particularly when it involved complete inaction--and he lapsed into silence, turning his back toward Watson and the bedroom door. Watson patted his shoulder and left the room to see to a few things.

The next days were difficult for both of them as they tried to adjust to Holmes' changed situation while still hoping for eventual improvement. With the aid of a cane, Holmes was able to stand on his own despite the continued vertigo, and he could lurch his way from bed to dresser to doorway to mantelpiece and so on. His brilliant mind quickly learned the positions of things, so he could find the chamberpot or his dressing gown or the tobacco slipper so long as they were in their proper places. He could even smoke his pipe without assistance, his fingers knowing all too well how to stuff a pipe, though there were a few burnt fingertips before he learned to light it unaided.

Eating proved more difficult, for he had no way of knowing what was on his plate and where unless he put his fingers in his food. The utensils also posed a challenge, as he could not quite tell if he was holding the fork or spoon level or whether he'd managed to get anything onto them at all. And that was assuming he was hungry enough to try eating in the first place, which often wasn't the case thanks to the nausea he endured to move himself to the table.

For one meal Watson had Mrs. Hudson supply food that could be eaten with fingers rather than forks, but Holmes summarily refused to eat with his fingers like an infant. Next Watson tried bringing the food to Holmes wherever he was perched, but Holmes' continued awkwardness with his silverware and his inability to see when he was about to spill something resulted in some rather impressive stains on the settee upholstery and his clothing.

So Watson thought he'd try something else. He set the lunch tray between him and Holmes on the settee; Holmes began identifying the dishes from their smells, stopping abruptly when Watson gently touched his cheek. The tines of a fork then brushed his bottom lip, and he opened his mouth in surprise. Holmes swallowed that bite and several after without comment. Watson was pleased that Holmes accepted that much, even as he couldn't help thinking that Holmes presented quite a picture, blindfolded and allowing himself to be fed. His self-control was steadily crumbling in the face of such constant proximity to Holmes, but at least Holmes had no way of knowing what his nearness could do.

As in bed, during the day Holmes often gravitated to wherever Watson was--or insisted Watson sit near him--for the simple reassurance that the steadfast doctor was nearby. Watson was rather fond of the times Holmes put his head in Watson' lap and asked him to read the paper aloud, then proceeded to fall asleep. Holmes continued such behaviors but became more taciturn as days turned into one week, then two, without any change in his sight or hearing.

Where before he would try to predict what was for dinner based on the smells wafting up from the kitchen, he ceased to take any interest in what was going on belowstairs or anywhere else. He often opted to remain in bed rather than make the effort to venture into the sitting room when there was no purpose for him to be in the sitting room--it couldn't even be argued to be a 'change of scenery' since everywhere looked rather the same to him.

Under ordinary circumstances, Watson would have been concerned that Holmes would resort to his needle; that he could not do so must have been particularly vexing for Holmes. Unwilling to drug Holmes into a better frame of mind, Watson periodically took to dropping a random item in Holmes' lap. Holmes would feel it, smell it, and sometimes even taste it, then tell Watson his conclusions.

There were moments that Holmes was unwilling to play along and the item was thrown across the room, but it was a fairly successful ploy on most occasions. Holmes had a truly uncanny sense of smell, in particular, and could identify at least two dozen brands and mixes of tobacco by scent alone.

Watson was beginning to run out of things for Holmes to identify when their daily check of his vision--at night, just before bed, with a single candle lit--found that he could perceive the light of the candle and correctly identify when the candle was in front of him and when it wasn't. Holmes wanted to return to the sitting room immediately for additional experimentation, but Watson was able to persuade him to wait until morning.

Watson woke during the night to find Holmes absent from bed, though the sheets were still warm. "Holmes?" he called as he pulled on his dressing gown and picked up Holmes'. Right after Holmes was injured, Watson ceased making comments addressed to Holmes, but three days of unnatural silence and feeling as if he'd been struck mute convinced him to carry on as usual, which meant addressing Holmes as if he could hear. Only later did he reason that this would make it easier to tell when Holmes' hearing began to return.

He found Holmes standing in the middle of the sitting room, blindfold dangling from one hand. "Watson," Holmes said upon feeling Watson settle his dressing gown on his thin shoulders. "You need not rise on my account. You are not yet rested--your limp is more pronounced than usual."

Watson gaped at him, but before he could utter a word, Holmes explained, "I could feel your step on the floorboards." Most of the rugs had been taken up after Holmes nearly tripped into the fire while learning to be ambulatory in his current state; this, and the fact that Holmes was barefoot, explained Holmes' insight.

Watson patted Holmes' shoulder, then took his elbow and tried to lead him back to the bedroom. Holmes resisted. "It seems we were mistaken. It is morning, but I cannot see any light." Watson sighed and took Holmes' hand, closing it around the fingers he held up.

Holmes' sensitive fingers felt the upraised digits and he said, "Three? You mean it is three in the morning?" Watson nodded against Holmes' hand. "Many apologies, my dear chap. It was not my intention to knock you up at such an hour." This time when Watson pulled him toward his bedroom, he came willingly.

After they rose again at a more decent hour, Watson evaluated the various timepieces they had in their possession. Selecting an old, beat-up pocketwatch with no sentimental value, he carefully removed the glass facing so the hands could be felt when the watch was open. This he presented to Holmes at lunch. Holmes laughed briefly, then appeared quite touched as he practised reading it. "You are far too kind," he murmured. "Of course, I shan't need it for long, but the thought is quite appreciated."

Watson frowned. While he was grateful that Holmes was taking an optimistic view, he was concerned that Holmes was setting his hopes too high. That there was improvement was encouraging, but it didn't guarantee the full return of his vision. Holmes would not cope well with anything less than his formerly keen sight, but how could Watson hope to moderate Holmes' expectations with only crude gestures at his disposal?

(In the end, Holmes did use the watch for far longer than anticipated, but not for the reason Watson feared. It was a splendid way to tell time without requiring a light, and Holmes often used it during stakeouts. The end of its useful life came rather abruptly, when it served an entirely different purpose and caught a badly-aimed bullet that would otherwise have struck Holmes in the stomach. The bruise from the impact lingered for weeks; the badly dented watch found a new home on the mantelpiece.)

Fortunately, Holmes' eyesight continued to improve, albeit more slowly than Holmes would have liked; Watson thought his progress was quite good. From distinguishing light and dark, he progressed to being able to tell when Watson placed himself between Holmes and the sunlit window. The next day he began to identify vague shapes, like Watson pacing up and down the room or the cabinet against the wall, but only when the room was brightly lit--in dim light, he was still nearly sightless.

As Watson had expected, once Holmes could see a little bit, he was ever endeavouring to improve just a little bit more, as if by his will alone he could make Watson's face come into focus. He quickly tired but didn't admit it and gave himself innumerable headaches; Watson tried to watch him and put the blindfold back on him when necessary, but Holmes would quietly go elsewhere and take it off again.

Even with the overexertion, within a week Holmes went from barely seeing light and dark to being able to make out the blurry forms of people and furniture in most levels of light. He could identify a hand when placed before his face, but couldn't say how many fingers were being held up. He could differentiate between Mrs. Hudson and Watson based on the shape of their clothing (as well as height and the difference in hair styles), but faces and clothing details were still lost to him.

Despite this progress, Holmes grew frustrated and refused to speak or leave the bed for three days. On the third day, Watson took the day's papers and a novel and sat on the bed beside him. He soon noticed that Holmes was edging toward him, even as he kept his back to Watson. Holmes ended up with his back pressed against Watson's leg. Watson came close to elbowing him in the head at several points, so he used the proximity to justify occasionally brushing against Holmes' shoulder or his hair.

Holmes never uttered a word of complaint, even when Watson discovered that, while reading his book, he had absent-mindedly begun stroking Holmes' arm as one would a cat. Watson's face flushed in embarrassment, but when he removed his hand Holmes sighed, rolled over toward him and set his face against Watson's hip. Watson's body began to respond to Holmes' affectionate touch; never was he more grateful that Holmes couldn't see than at that moment. Holmes in his normal condition would have been horrified, no doubt, but this Holmes sighed in contentment, blissfully ignorant of Watson's mortifying state.

Watson resolutely returned his hand and eyes to his book, willing himself to pay attention to the words on the page and not the warm nearness of Holmes. It even worked for a time . . . until Holmes shifted and put his arm over Watson's leg, tucking his hand beneath Watson's knee.

Near his breaking point and desiring to flee, Watson considered that Holmes never would have allowed such closeness before his accident. But were these gestures of affection, or merely Holmes seeking reassurance of Watson's presence the only way he could? In either case, he could--and should--not rebuff him. Watson let his hand stray from his book again, this time to run over and through Holmes' hair. Holmes sighed raggedly and clutched him more tightly.

Every so often Watson's hand strayed to stroke the curve of Holmes' face. In one such pass, his fingers came away wet. "Holmes?" he murmured as he set his book aside and shifted to the side a bit so he could see Holmes' face. Holmes tried to turn away, evidently embarrassed.

"Shh, it's all right," Watson said, gently removing the blindfold and wiping the dampness from Holmes' cheeks. Holmes began to open his eyes, but Watson's thumbs held his lids down; when Holmes seemed to accept that he shouldn't open his eyes, Watson swept his thumbs beneath Holmes' eyes to catch the welling moisture there.

Watson drew back from Holmes for a moment, carefully rearranging the pillows so he could recline against the headboard, then guided Holmes to lie alongside, his head pillowed on Watson's shoulder and his body pressed against Watson's side, Watson's arm curling around his back to hold him close. Holmes slid an arm around Watson's waist and sighed, relaxing as Watson stroked his face, his arm, his back, and murmured reassuringly.

At length it seemed Holmes had fallen asleep. Watson must have followed his lead, for he was next aware of opening his eyes to find Holmes leaning over him, studying his face intently. He smiled at Holmes, who smiled back but did not withdraw. "Holmes?" he questioned finally when Holmes continued staring at him without saying a word.

As soon as he spoke, Holmes frowned, looking exceedingly discontent, and drew back, flopping onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. "I do not know how much longer I can stand this, Watson," he said mournfully. "My sight is more important for my work and I am grateful it is returning, but being insulated from all sound is maddening."

Watson patted his arm, recognizing that words were worse than useless. Then he realized it had been a while since he'd checked Holmes' ears; he rose and fetched his bag, urging Holmes to sit up by tugging on his arm. Holmes obeyed without protest, his shoulders slumped and his eyes closed as if he didn't care to see what he was in for this time.

The membranes were beginning to heal. The changes were subtle and had not yet sealed the rupture--thus Holmes' continued deafness--but Watson was encouraged. He gripped Holmes' shoulder reassuringly, hoping Holmes wouldn't ask questions, as he still had no way to determine how soon Holmes might regain his hearing or how much he might regain. Holmes didn't say anything, just laid down with his back to Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

Watson woke to the sound of rustling newspaper, only to find Holmes with the morning's paper, squinting and tilting his head, holding it here and there in an attempt to make out the words. It was difficult not to laugh at Holmes' very serious expression as he held the paper out at arm's length and squinted until his eyes were almost shut.

Holmes threw the paper down with a sigh when he noticed he had an audience. "I can make out the largest headlines, but little else," he said dourly.

Watson nodded and picked the paper up to skim the articles. There was nothing of any real interest to either of them, fortunately, and he too threw the paper onto the bed. Holmes picked it up again as if to make another attempt, but Watson grabbed it from him, wadded it up, and threw it toward the door.

Holmes scowled. "I might as well still be entirely blind, with as little as I can see."

Watson glared at him, annoyed that the impatient man did not appreciate how far he had come already. "You really are too much sometimes," he muttered while looking away, taking advantage of the fact that Holmes could not hear him.

Holmes stalked out to the sitting room in frustration and discovered what sight he did have made it considerably easier to move about, despite the lingering unsteadiness due to vertigo. Numerous other things were also possible that he had not thought about earlier: seeing his belongings with his eyes, not his fingers; conducting small experiments that did not require detailed observations; feeding himself.

He still tried to read at every opportunity, frequently pushing himself to a point of visual exhaustion and stabbing headaches; Watson would have to find where Holmes had stashed the blindfold and put it back on him, then put up with Holmes fussing about having to be helped again. Watson would have thought such a brilliant man could put two and two together after the pattern occurred three days in a row, but Holmes persisted in trying too much too soon. He supposed it was to be expected from a man like Holmes.

Especially when some of his beloved activities remained quite out of reach. Watson periodically saw Holmes staring at his violin mournfully, watched him brush the case with his fingertips before turning away and clenching his hands. He also noticed Holmes increasingly addressed him while facing away from him, as if forgetting he could not hear the response. When Holmes faced him, they could nearly converse normally, Holmes already having been able to read lips with reasonable accuracy and always able to read Watson with uncomfortable accuracy.

Now that Holmes had more available stimuli, Watson did not always pay close attention to his activities. Thus he was surprised when he heard Holmes plucking his violin idly. He turned in his chair to find Holmes standing by the window, eyes closed as he held the violin against himself and fingered the strings. But whatever he had hoped wasn't coming to fruition, for he looked discontent and he quickly abandoned the project, carefully setting the instrument in its case before closing the lid with rather more force than was necessary.

He did not notice Watson's eyes upon him until he moved to put the case away. "I had hoped-" he began, then shook his head once and said, "Never mind what I hoped. It did not work." Once the violin was back in its place, Holmes cast himself upon the settee with his back to the room.

Watson thought he could guess what Holmes had hoped--something to do with the vibrations and the fact that his inner ear's workings were (presumably) still intact--but knew there hadn't been much chance that Holmes would have succeeded.

Then came the day that Holmes picked up a newspaper to test his eyes and did not immediately throw it down with a huff of disgust. Instead, he sank into his armchair and peered at the cramped newsprint. "Finally," he sighed, sounding put-upon and beleaguered. Watson was relieved, and amused that Holmes was taking on so. It had only been four days since he'd first managed to make out the headlines; progressing all the way to normal newsprint size in that time was quite remarkable.

Holmes spent most of the morning sorting through all of the newspapers he had missed, putting them into chronological order so he could catch up. Once that was done (and Watson had forced him to eat some lunch), he sat down and read.

It was almost painful to watch Holmes after a while. Watson could tell by the way he was squinting and constantly moving the page nearer or further from his face that his eyes were quickly becoming tired, but still Holmes persisted.

At length Watson heaved a sigh and tried to motion to Holmes that it was time to stop. Holmes held the paper higher and pretended that he didn't see Watson. Watson tried to tug the paper from Holmes' hands. Holmes tightened his grip until the thin paper began to tear and he glared at Watson.

Watson gave up for the moment, and tried to think of what he could do to lessen the strain on Holmes' poor eyes. Holmes would never agree to see an optician, and in any case his sight was changing quickly enough that any spectacles would be useless as soon as they were made. Removing his reading material was nearly impossible, for even if he succeeded in taking away the newspaper, they had a large number of books as well. Holmes would simply remove the blindfold if Watson put it on him, and of course Holmes wouldn't heed Watson's warnings now that the written word was once again within his reach. Watson couldn't blame him, but something still needed to be done.

Then Watson had an idea. He rummaged through Holmes' desk drawers, then his coat pockets, and finally had to rummage through the messes on the mantelpiece and other flat surfaces in the sitting room before he found what he sought. He wrote a brief note -You'll do yourself an injury if you overstrain your eyes- and dropped it and Holmes' convex lens into Holmes' lap. Holmes peered through it experimentally, then brightened. "Good old Watson," he said by way of thanks even as he immersed himself in the paper again. Watson shook his head in bemusement but didn't bother Holmes again until dinnertime.

Holmes thus passed the afternoon quite contentedly, reading the papers and clipping various items for his commonplace book. It was late in the evening before he finished gluing the additions into his volumes; he frequently paused to pinch the bridge of his nose or rub his forehead wearily. Watson noted this, having been watching for such signs all afternoon, and was grateful that one of his tasks for the day had been ensuring he had supplies of several headache remedies on hand. He provided a dose of one to Holmes just before they retired, and he kept his bag near the bedside in readiness should Holmes require more.

Watson was surprised to wake and find it was past daybreak; he'd half expected Holmes would rouse him in the night for relief from his headache. He rolled over and found Holmes lying stiffly on his back, one arm over his eyes as if to keep out the light. Watson touched Holmes' hand to let him know his movements were due to wakefulness rather than restlessness--Holmes had, on prior occasions, woken Watson, thinking he was already awake.

"Watson," Holmes said, sounding pitiful despite the fact he was nearly shouting.

Watson touched a finger to Holmes' lips to signal his volume was excessive. He struggled to focus on Holmes' words that followed rather than how Holmes' lips had felt against his skin.

"Watson," Holmes repeated, more quietly this time, moving his arm and flicking his eyes toward Watson, "everything is blurry, and my head aches terribly."

He could see Holmes trying to focus on his face and knew the effort would only cause him more pain. He sat up and retrieved his bag from the floor beside the bed, fished out the blindfold and carefully helped Holmes sit up so it could be fastened around his head. Holmes' headache was evidently severe, to judge by the alarming loss of color in his face as he sat up and Holmes' convulsive swallowing afterward, as if trying not to succumb to nausea.

Watson poured a glass of water and gave it to Holmes; he drank cautiously while Watson prepared a small dose of morphine. When Holmes finished the water, Watson took his arm and deftly injected him. Holmes started to lie down again, but Watson stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. After setting the glass and syringe aside, Watson shifted so he knelt behind Holmes, and began rubbing Holmes' shoulders and neck. Holmes was exceedingly tense from poring over the papers, but gradually Watson felt the tension releasing beneath his hands, and Holmes sighed in contentment.

"You are too good to me," he murmured, "and that even when it is my own fault. If the next words you say to me are 'I told you so', I would certainly deserve it."

Watson chuckled and continued his work, wondering if Holmes had any inkling that this kindness wasn't just for Holmes' sake, but also provided a convenient excuse for Watson to touch him. When Watson decided Holmes was sufficiently relaxed--and he could not continue stroking Holmes without risking inappropriate actions--he helped Holmes lie down.

"Thank you," Holmes mumbled when his head hit the pillow. Watson patted his shoulder and set about cleaning the syringe and returning his supplies to their places in his bag. By the time he finished this, Holmes' breathing was deep and even. Watson fleetingly wondered how long Holmes had been awake and suffering. He shrugged and went to dress and eat breakfast.

Between the morphine and resting, Holmes' headache was greatly diminished by evening. Upon waking the next morning he declared himself good as new, though Watson noted he read with caution, frequently lowering the paper as if meditating on the information presented. And perhaps he was, but Watson knew him well enough to recognize it as a stalling tactic. It was for the best, so Watson said nothing.

Holmes was able to keep himself more or less happily occupied for three days before he became restless and resorted to pacing the sitting room or watching Watson with what seemed to be an unblinking gaze. Watson put up with this for one day before deciding that something had to be done. He was feeling rather cooped-up and restless himself, so an outing might help them both.

Fortunately, the day was cloudy but mild, the grey clouds screening the sun without threatening rain. After breakfast, Watson waited until Holmes had ceased pacing and resumed staring at him before he suggested taking a walk to the park. Holmes quickly glanced toward the window, then asked cautiously, "Do you think that would be wise?"

Watson shrugged. "You need a change or you're going to drive me mad. We might as well try. Your eyes should be all right." _And you'll have to go out one way or the other, whether your hearing comes back or not_ , Watson continued the thought in his mind, and from Holmes' dour expression, it seemed the same idea had crossed his mind as well.

They were dressed for the outdoors and upon the front stoop of their abode within five minutes. Holmes hesitated for a moment, his eyes sweeping the familiar traffic of the street, then nodded briskly, slipping his arm around Watson's so they proceeded arm-in-arm. Watson led the way, trying to be mindful of the things Holmes could not hear, particularly at street corners, while Holmes looked around with such an air of fascination and bafflement it was almost as if he had never seen a London street before.

At one point they encountered quite a crowd, and in the press and shuffle they were nearly pulled apart. Holmes clutched Watson's arm with such persistence that there were sure to be bruises later, and with some careful maneuvering, they emerged from the masses still together.

By the time they reached the safe environs of Hyde Park, Holmes looked harried and discontent. "It is disconcerting," he said as they seated themselves upon an out of the way bench, "to see the people and know what sounds I should hear and yet not hear them. I feel the rumble of the cabs instead of hearing them. I do not like it."

Watson patted his hand in reassurance but said nothing. He could not imagine how it would feel to be in Holmes' place--he'd tried and failed. At least here they could remain in the quieter corners where there were no real sounds for Holmes to miss. He'd never been one to enjoy such things as birdcalls and the rustling of leaves in the wind anyway.

They remained silently seated on the bench for some time, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Watson stirred only when he realized it was nearly lunchtime. He nudged Holmes, who grumbled a few half-hearted protests but stood when urged to do so.

The trek back to their digs was less taxing--evidently the crowds had gone to lunch--and Holmes fared as well as could be expected. Which is to say, he managed to avoid being run over by a cab even without Watson tugging on his arm. After all, his sight was good enough for that, thank goodness.

Following lunch, Holmes stretched out upon the settee, his fingers steepled against his chest as he stared at the ceiling. Watson puttered for a while, straightening and neatening until the afternoon post arrived, bringing with it an invitation to dine with a few friends at his club. This he handed to Holmes, wordlessly asking if he wouldn't mind being alone for the evening.

"Of course you should go," Holmes said almost immediately, handing back the missive and accepting his own post in its stead. He was absorbed for a few moments in skimming his letters, keeping two and dropping the rest on the floor. He rose and began to rummage around in the stack of papers beside his chair, selecting a few and discarding the rest in a messy heap.

Watson watched with some bemusement as Holmes paged through the selected papers, folding them open at particular points and setting them side by side on the settee along with the letters. Then his pipe appeared; he smoked as he paced before the settee, occasionally stopping to bend over one paper or another before resuming.

The atmosphere in the room was becoming thick by the time Watson prepared to leave for dinner; he tapped Holmes on the shoulder and pointed to his watch to let him know he was going. "Just a moment, my good man," Holmes said, quickly crossing to his desk and scribbling a brief telegram. "If you would be so kind as to send this to Lestrade, I would be grateful."

"Of course," Watson said, tucking it into his waistcoat pocket.

Watson enjoyed his outing, and returned to Baker Street in a contented state, even going so far as to pick up more of Holmes' tobacco along the way. Evidently Holmes' telegram had borne fruit in his absence, for Lestrade was seated in Watson's chair across from an attentive Holmes. Lestrade looked up when Watson entered the room, nodding in his direction even as he listened to Holmes' direct questions. Holmes' gaze didn't falter when he said, "It is good you have returned; your notes would be invaluable."

"Certainly," Watson said, hanging his hat and retrieving his notebook from his desk, his pen poised as Lestrade began again.

It was a case with a few points of interest, though Watson suspected Holmes accepted it only because it had been weeks since the last and he craved the mental exercise. Lestrade, at first uncomfortable with the idea of speaking to Holmes when Holmes could not hear him, quickly adapted to having to face Holmes when he spoke and accepted Holmes' interrupted questions with his usual grace (which is to say, he became rather annoyed).

Lestrade departed with specific instructions to find out three particulars and wire as soon as he had answers. Holmes didn't move or speak for some time after Lestrade left. Watson put the finishing touches on his notes, then rose and signaled that he was going to retire. Holmes nodded and waved him on.

Watson was halfway across the room when a soft query from Holmes stopped him in his tracks. "Watson?" _Where are you going?_ Watson mentally finished Holmes' unasked question as he returned to stand beside his chair.

"You're well enough to take a case, so you're well enough not to need me at night. And if I don't miss my guess, you may not go to bed tonight. You often don't when working."

"Oh, I have solved it," Holmes said, gesturing dismissively with his pipe.

"But you sent Lestrade-"

"For information that the police will require. I do not need it."

"I see. Good night, then."

"Good night, Watson."

Watson thought he detected a note of disappointment in Holmes' voice, but his expression was unreadable.

.

Watson passed a restless night, waking up nearly every time he shifted position and found cold sheets instead of warm ones. Come morning, he didn't feel rested but dressed and went down to breakfast anyhow. Holmes was in his armchair already, smoking his before-breakfast pipe, looking as tired as Watson felt.

They ate breakfast in silence, perusing the morning papers. The message from Lestrade arrived as they were lingering over the last of the coffee. "Remarkably prompt," Holmes commented as he skimmed the hurried scrawl, nodding as the information confirmed his conclusions. He bent over his desk and wrote his reply, explaining the facts of the case and providing his conclusions.

When finished, he handed the note to Billy with something like reluctance. "Run this down to Scotland Yard, there's a good lad," he said, and gave him a few coins as well.

"Yessir!" Billy said eagerly, dashing from the room.

Watson heard him thunder down the stairs, then slam the front door in a most unseemly fashion. Holmes jerked in startlement, then turned to Watson, "Did he slam the front door?"

Watson nodded, and Holmes looked thoughtful. "I believe I heard it. Just a moment, I wish to try something." He sat on the settee, crossing his legs so his feet didn't touch the floor. "Slam the sitting room door, if you would," he directed.

Watson shrugged and complied after calling an apology down to Mrs. Hudson.

"Again, but with less force," Holmes commanded. Watson did. "Again!" Holmes called.

This time Watson closed it with little enough force that, at length, Holmes asked, "You already closed it, didn't you? I didn't hear it."

Holmes spent the rest of the day experimenting, prevailing upon Watson to make noises with various items at various distances while Holmes turned his back and tried to hear them. By dinnertime, Watson had a pounding headache and Holmes was discouraged but kept on trying. At the table, he persisted in striking his utensils against the table and holding them up to his ears. Watson ate his dinner and tried to ignore Holmes.

He was mostly successful until Holmes took to scraping his knife and fork across his plate in a manner that changed Watson's headache from a throbbing to a stabbing pain. He reached across the table and clamped Holmes' hands in his. "Stop that this instant," he growled. "Put your silverware to its proper use or I shall take it from you."

Holmes only stared at him. Watson released Holmes' hands and rose to fetch something for his headache. When he returned to the table, Holmes had not moved. "Eat," he said, gesturing to Holmes' nearly untouched food, and finished his own meal.

Watson frowned when he heard Holmes' fork scrape against the plate again, but was willing to dismiss it until he looked up and saw Holmes was not eating. With a sigh, he grasped Holmes' hands again, feeling them quiver beneath his, and pried the knife and fork from Holmes' long fingers. Holmes watched him impassively as he confiscated the spoon, too, and looked to be waiting for Watson's next move.

He pulled Holmes' plate across the table, cut a piece of meat, and offered it to Holmes on Holmes' fork. Holmes' eyes flicked between the fork and Watson several times before he leaned forward and closed his mouth around the fork, then pulled away, chewing. When Watson repeated the action, Holmes repeated the response, compliant, but with an expression that Watson had not seen before and could not interpret.

Watson's gaze was inevitably drawn to Holmes' mouth, the way his lips moved as he ate, how his tongue darted out to wet his lips or catch a stray crumb. He remembered feeding the blinded Holmes, how he could watch Holmes carefully without being watched. That was no longer the case. He caught Holmes observing him as he shifted in his seat following an appearance by Holmes' tongue; he blushed mightily as Holmes seemed to smirk, then licked his lips with his eyes on Watson the entire time.

Soon after, Holmes ceased accepting food and rose from the table. He meandered to the fireplace and leisurely sorted through the letters he had affixed to the mantelpiece, at length picking up his pipe and seating himself in his armchair.

Watson remained at the table until Holmes was settled and only then did he stand and discreetly adjust himself in his trousers. He poured himself a splash of brandy and drank it in a swift gulp, then squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, ready to face Holmes again.

Just as he was about to sit down, however, Holmes spoke. "Watson, would you do something for me?"

He must have appeared reluctant, for Holmes immediately elaborated, "Nothing difficult or taxing, I assure you. I just need you to stand where I tell you."

Watson agreed, his curiosity piqued. Holmes moved forward in his chair, perching near the edge with his knees widely parted. "Come right here, please," Holmes said, pointing to the space between his knees. Watson hesitated for a moment, then obeyed, dreading what Holmes might have deduced from his behavior at dinner and wondering what form the confrontation would take.

But when he was in place, Holmes merely leaned forward and pressed an ear to Watson's chest.

Any physical reaction he might have had from Holmes' proximity was forestalled by astonishment. "Holmes, what-"

"I can hear it . . . very faint," Holmes said softly, then chuckled. "Breathe, Watson."

Watson took a deep breath, feeling light-headed, and tried to hold still. After a while, Holmes sat back and sighed. "Thank you. You are tired. Will you be turning in, then?"

Watson had, in truth, just been contemplating his bed, since his headache still thrummed dully behind his eyes. "Yes, I think I will. Good night."

Holmes did not object this time when Watson went up to his own bedroom.


	3. Chapter 3

Watson was roused in the wee hours of the morning by a certain someone climbing into his bed, pressing close and resting his head against Watson's chest. "Holmes?" he murmured sleepily, half-wondering if it was a dream.

"I'm hearing things," Holmes whispered haltingly. "I hear your voice, a carriage on the street, things that I know are not real. Not at this time of night. I need something I know is real to make it stop."

Watson rested a hand on Holmes' head, running his fingers through Holmes' hair in attempt to soothe. Holmes said no more, presumably content to listen to Watson's steady heartbeat. As he slid back into sleep, Watson thought he felt Holmes turn his head and press a kiss to his palm, but dismissed it as an illusion.

Holmes was still wrapped around him when Watson woke again at a more normal hour. His head was beside Watson's on the pillow, his breath ghosting across Watson's throat and collarbone. He looked more at peace than he had in a long while, at least that Watson could remember. Watson remained in place, content to stay there as long as Holmes remained asleep.

Evidently Holmes had thought the same of Watson, for Watson was awake for only a few moments before Holmes stirred beside him. "Now that you're awake, I suppose I ought to leave," Holmes mumbled into Watson's shoulder. Watson shrugged half-heartedly and made an indistinct noise.

"Watson?" Holmes asked seriously after several minutes' silence.

"Hm?" Watson grunted in response, opening his eyes again and looking over at him.

Holmes seemed to hesitate a moment, then said earnestly, "Thank you." With these words, he quickly rose and left, smoothly plucking his dressing gown from the floor and gently closing the door behind him.

Watson wondered what Holmes had been about to say, and felt cold in his absence.

~~

Holmes mostly kept to himself for the next few days, answering a few letters here and there when he wasn't stretched out on the settee. If he continued testing his hearing, he didn't involve Watson. They took a stroll to the park each day; Watson could almost see Holmes straining to hear the commotion that continually surrounded them, but couldn't tell how many of Holmes' reactions were from audible stimuli rather than Holmes being his usual excessively observant self.

After Holmes sought out Watson three nights in a row, troubled by sounds he couldn't possibly be hearing, Watson returned to sleeping in Holmes' bedroom. Just until Holmes could hear fully again, or so he tried to tell himself. And if he often woke to find Holmes draped over him, he just assumed Holmes needed to hear his steady heartbeat during the night. And if the rest of the time he woke to find he was embracing Holmes, well, Holmes must have been restless and he was simply trying to calm him. The fact that he enjoyed this close contact with his friend and flatmate didn't figure into it, not at all.

Watson often wondered what Holmes might be thinking about him, about their altered interactions. Not only were they sharing a bed, Holmes remained more demonstrative than had been typical despite having regained his sight, and Watson could not guess at the cause. Which is to say, he could guess, but he preferred not to, knowing that the conclusion he was inclined to draw was more than likely incorrect. And Holmes did not speak of it, instead behaving as if it was normal for him to sit on the floor, leaning against Watson's legs, or lying with his head in Watson's lap and demanding that Watson read aloud.

And yet . . . increasingly Watson would look up or wake up and find Holmes studying him, that strange expression on his face. In anyone else Watson might have called it wistful or fond, but in Holmes he couldn't be sure. He wished Holmes would do or say something more concrete, but Holmes said very little in those days and his actions were inconclusive.

When Holmes spent the entirety of two days lying limply on the settee, Watson grew restless and went out to his club in the evening. It was late when he returned, not quite drunk but definitely having had a few too many. Holmes was still on the settee, but Watson could tell he had moved, for his head was now at the opposite end. "Holmes," he greeted as he hung up his coat and hat, then turned and saw Holmes' syringe case open on Holmes' desk. He sighed heavily and wearily rubbed his face; he'd been expecting something like this since Holmes had regained his sight, but he still didn't like it.

He stood beside the settee, crossed his arms, and stared down at Holmes. Holmes' eyes slid over to look at him, but he didn't move otherwise. "Why, Holmes?"

"Why were you drinking?" Holmes countered, then shrugged slightly. "I thought it might help. It didn't." He sounded mournful.

"You're still healing. Give it more time," Watson said impatiently, having grown tired of Holmes' constant complaint.

Holmes sat up abruptly and glared at him. "You know nothing of this," he spat. "It has been weeks, and still I hear only as if underwater, mere noise and sometimes murmurs, but never able to discern what is said. It is intolerable."

Chastened, Watson nodded. "I know. I'm sorry. But there is still the potential for improvement. You must be patient for a little while longer." He clasped Holmes' shoulder and squeezed, trying to be reassuring. Touching Holmes' shoulder became rubbing Holmes' shoulders, and as they sat in silence for several minutes, Holmes put his head in his hands. After a while Watson tapped Holmes' shoulder until Holmes looked up. "It's late. Will you be able to sleep?"

Holmes considered a moment, no doubt calculating how much time had passed since he took the cocaine, then nodded.

"Come to bed, then," Watson encouraged, tugging slightly on his arm. Holmes came without resistance or enthusiasm, changing his clothes only when Watson handed him a nightshirt, and crawling into bed with a deep sigh. Watson sat next to him, but hesitated before lying down. "It will get better," he said.

Holmes snorted. "You cannot promise that."

"No, but I am convinced all the same." Watson blew out the candle and laid down beside Holmes.

.

Watson was nearly asleep when he felt Holmes shift against his side, felt Holmes' lips against his collarbone briefly before he settled his head on Watson's shoulder. Watson turned toward him slightly and rubbed his cheek against Holmes' hair. Holmes slipped an arm over Watson's waist and a knee over Watson's leg and murmured, "You are more dear to me than you could ever know."

"I love you, too," Watson replied without thinking, then blinked and stared at the ceiling when he realized what he'd said.

Holmes likely didn't understand the words, but he must have felt Watson's reaction afterward, for he sat up and asked, "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing," Watson said as calmly as he could, hoping his tone would convey what Holmes couldn't hear in words, and urged Holmes to lie back down.

Holmes resisted. "I don't think you realize I am in earnest," he insisted. "It may have been better to wait to say it until we could converse properly, but I thought this might be easier."

Watson longed to see Holmes' face, but perhaps the darkness was part of what made it easier for Holmes to say. Holmes was incorrect on one point: Watson absolutely believed Holmes was in earnest, he just wasn't certain he was correctly interpreting Holmes' meaning. If he was right and he rightly understood Holmes' intent, well, it was difficult to believe.

His disbelief was disrupted when Holmes leaned over, cupped Watson's cheek in his hand, and kissed him briefly. Though barely more than a brush of the lips, it was enough to send Watson's senses reeling, and being able to see Holmes became imperative.

As soon as Holmes drew back, Watson sat up and fumbled for the matches, striking one several times before it caught. "Watson?" Holmes asked hesitantly as the candle flared to life. He looked distressed, bless him, so Watson reassured him in the most effective manner he could think of: he took Holmes' face in his hands and kissed him soundly. After a brief gasp of surprise, Holmes returned the kiss with enthusiasm.

Watson had no idea how long they spent learning the feel, the taste, of the other's mouth. His hands moved of their own accord into Holmes' thick hair, stroking through it, his short nails dragging along Holmes' scalp in a way that set Holmes groaning in a most pleasing fashion.

When Watson's head began to swim, he pulled away just a bit, resting his forehead against Holmes' as he struggled to breathe against the pounding in his chest. He felt lightheaded even after catching his breath, and from the way Holmes trembled against him, it appeared he was similarly affected.

Watson leaned back so Holmes could see his face. "We should sleep," he said gently. Holmes looked at him seriously for a moment, then gave his assent by lying down. Watson blew out the candle and kissed Holmes' temple before lying beside him, an arm thrown over Holmes' chest.

They slept entwined, and Watson woke to Holmes tracing the lines of his face with his fingertips. "Holmes-" Watson started, but Holmes placed two fingers over his lips. Watson smiled slightly and licked the fingertips, then drew one into his mouth and gently nipped it. Holmes' eyes grew wide and his breathing seemed strained but he didn't move.

"I take it you have no objections to what we began last night," Holmes said, his voice strained.

Watson released Holmes' finger and frowned. "Why would I object?"

"You weren't entirely sober at the time, so your reactions may not have been genuine."

Watson took Holmes' hand in his, kissed the palm, and held it to his cheek. "I'm surprised you couldn't tell just by looking at me," he teased.

Holmes flushed. "Some things are harder to read, even on you. I am no expert in the softer emotions, as you well know."

Watson grinned, then laughed as he saw Holmes' face shift into that expression that so puzzled him before. "I've wondered what you were thinking when you look at me like that," he said, touching Holmes' cheek lightly. "Now I think I know." His hand slipped to Holmes' neck and he tugged him down and kissed him.

Their hands explored each other's bodies as they kissed. Watson felt his skin tingle under Holmes' touch, Holmes' fingers leaving burning trails in their wake as he stroked Watson's form through his nightshirt, learning by touch what was familiar by sight. Watson's own hands could not get enough of caressing Holmes, finally able to trail over that fine skin, to clasp his hip, to pull him closer until they were pressed together from chest to groin. He passed his hand over Holmes' buttock and down his thigh, blindly seeking the edge of Holmes' nightshirt so he could slip under it and feel only skin.

As soon as his fingertips found the hem and began tugging it upward, Holmes' long fingers clamped around his wrist. "Don't," Holmes commanded softly. Watson immediately moved his hand to the safer locale of Holmes' lower back, doubts crowding his mind. Had he misread the situation? That didn't seem likely, since Holmes wasn't pulling away.

"Holmes?" he asked when Holmes failed to explain himself. Now Holmes did pull away, sitting back on his heels and looking supremely uncomfortable.

"I want to be able to hear you before we . . . you know . . ." he murmured.

Watson sat up and took one of Holmes' hands in both of his. "I understand," he said simply, then leaned forward and kissed Holmes' cheek. Holmes sighed and relaxed, just a little.

Watson laid back and tugged Holmes' hand until he followed and resumed the embrace they had begun in sleep. Watson stroked Holmes' back until he was no longer stiff with tension. Holmes did not speak so Watson didn't either, and they spent quite some time in entwined in comfortable coexistence.

Then Holmes' stomach rumbled and Watson laughed. "My thoughts exactly."

~~~~

At breakfast and in the days following, Watson played a little game with himself, trying to see how often he could touch Holmes in the course of their normal activities. Passing the butter dish became an exercise in brushing fingertips with Holmes. He handed Holmes the newspaper or his post in a manner that required touching Holmes' hand. Giving him a tumbler of brandy, he stroked the back of Holmes' hand and wrist.

Holmes quickly caught on to what he was doing, as Watson had expected. But rather than saying anything about it, he began to do the same. He touched Watson's shoulder when passing by his chair. He gripped Watson's hand before releasing his arm as they returned inside after a stroll. He would purposefully overreach when giving something to Watson so Watson could cup his hand before taking the item.

Four days after the night that changed everything, they lingered over the after-dinner coffee until Mrs. Hudson had cleared away the dinner dishes. When she had departed, Holmes rose and locked the door, then drew Watson from his chair and led him to the settee, handing him a book along the way. He directed Watson to recline against one arm, then settled himself between Watson's legs and leaned back against his chest, his head on Watson's shoulder.

"Read," Holmes said, smoothing his hands over Watson's legs. Watson's breath hitched but he complied, wondering how much Holmes could hear of it.

He read for as long as he could focus, but Holmes' hands on his limbs became too much of a distraction and he had to stop, fighting for control over the urge to push Holmes onto the floor and have his way with him. Instead, he dropped the book and buried one hand in Holmes' hair, running the other across Holmes' chest as he bent his head and pressed kisses to Holmes' temple. Holmes turned his head and caught Watson's lips with his own, and for a time Watson knew only Holmes' mouth and the feel of Holmes' body beneath his hands.

Then Holmes pulled away, scrambling to his feet and staring down at him. "My dear Watson, you try my resolve most severely," he confessed, pushing a shaking hand through his hair. "You must excuse me." He left the room on long strides, and Watson heard the bathroom door click shut.

Watson remained on the settee, breathing heavily and debating whether he should see to himself or wait for Holmes to reappear in hopes that his resolve would yet crumble. But his arousal could not be denied, so he rose and retreated to the bedroom, locking the door while he took himself in hand. It was over almost before it had begun, he was so close already, and when he had cleaned up, he decided to change for bed. He returned to the sitting room in his nightshirt and dressing gown to await Holmes' return.

An hour following Holmes' hasty retreat, he emerged from the bathroom. He didn't speak and passed by Watson's chair as if going to his bedroom. Watson caught Holmes' hand and held it, looking up at him. "Are you all right?" he asked softly; he was certain Holmes could see the concern in his eyes.

"Yes, quite," Holmes replied, squeezing Watson's hand and smiling slightly. "Thank you."

"Are you going to bed, or will you stay up a while yet?"

Holmes seemed reluctant to answer, and began drawing away. "Bed, I think," he murmured.

Watson released Holmes' hand. "Don't wait up for me," he said, gesturing with the book he'd had in his lap as a pretence, "I would like to finish this chapter."

Holmes' apparent relief at his words gave credence to the instinct that had led him to lie thus--that Holmes would be uncomfortable disrobing in his presence after the incident that evening--and he was glad Holmes did not see through the ruse.

Watson gave Holmes half an hour before he joined him in the bedroom. Holmes was still awake, but they did not need words as they fell into the usual sleeping arrangement, Holmes tucked against Watson's side with one arm over his waist and Watson's arm around his back.

That night Watson dreamed of Holmes groaning and trembling with pleasure in his embrace.


	4. Chapter 4

Then came the breakthrough.

A week or so passed since their awkward evening; Watson followed Holmes' lead in resuming any sort of intimate gestures, though it did not take more than a day for them to return to what now passed for normal.

Sometime in that week they had inadvertently discovered (to Mrs. Hudson's dismay) that Holmes could understand words spoken to him in a raised voice. Several loud conversations followed, as did Holmes' insistence that Watson check the progress of the healing in his ears.

As far as Watson could tell, the membranes had successfully sealed themselves. That Holmes did not have his hearing fully restored was a puzzle, but he concluded that there could be healing yet to be done on a scale smaller than his eye could see. Flesh wounds were often scabbed over for some time before the skin beneath completely healed, after all, and this was how he explained it to Holmes.

Their walks increased in frequency and length, for Holmes desired to hear all he could of the cacophony of London now that it had been restored to him (at least in part), and as there were few cases coming his way, Watson was willing to keep Holmes occupied in any manner he wished.

The fresh air and exercise and relief at Holmes' improvement had Watson sleeping quite soundly, so when Holmes shook him awake in the middle of the night, he was disoriented and quite confused. "Wha-? Holmes?"

"Watson!" Holmes hissed, pushing at him again for good measure.

"Holmes, what's the matter?" he was only marginally more awake, but the urgency in Holmes' voice was doing wonders for his alertness.

"You were calling my name. It sounded like a nightmare."

"Oh. I don't--I don't remember. Maybe I was." Watson was sufficiently distracted by his attempts to remember what he'd been dreaming that it took him longer than it should have to realize one very important thing.

"Holmes . . . how are you . . ? There's no light. Can you hear me? Am I still dreaming?"

"If you are dreaming, then so am I," Holmes said slowly, evidently recognizing what had Watson so aghast. "I can hear you quite well, Watson."

"That's wonderful! Of course, I knew your hearing would return at some point, but I am exceedingly grateful the time has come at last."

"As am I. I did not relish the prospect of reading lips for the rest of my life. It is a useful skill but cannot provide nearly as much data as sound does."

Watson fumbled in the sheets until he found Holmes' hand, which he squeezed then kissed.

"Watson, will you read to me? I have sorely missed hearing your voice."

"I would be delighted," Watson replied with a smile.

There was an expectant silence.

"Surely you don't mean right now? It's the middle of the night!"

"What does time matter when I can finally hear?"

"I will read myself hoarse for you, but only during normal waking hours," Watson said firmly. "Right now, we ought to sleep."

"Perhaps you shall, but I cannot," Holmes said, rising from the bed and donning his dressing gown.

"What are you going to do?" Watson asked warily.

"I haven't decided yet."

"Promise me you won't play your violin. Mrs. Hudson would be quite put out to be knocked up at this hour."

"I rather think she would be pleased that my hearing has returned. We shan't be shouting at each other any longer, after all."

"Now you're just being difficult," Watson retorted. "All right then, I'll never read anything to you ever again if you don't wait until daylight to play the violin." He wasn't being entirely serious, and the responding snort from Holmes implied he understood the sentiment.

"I don't think you could hope to enforce that, my dear Watson, but I promise I will await daybreak for any violin playing."

"Thank you."

Holmes left and Watson strained to hear what he might be doing in the sitting room. But Holmes was fairly quiet, and Watson soon dropped back into sleep.

.

The sound of music filtered into his dreams, and only when it momentarily ceased did Watson wake and realize it was Holmes playing. The sound of Holmes tuning the instrument continued a short while, then the music resumed. Watson rose and took his dressing gown with him as he settled on the settee to listen.

He was unsurprised to find the hour was still quite early; Holmes had evidently taken the sun's first glimmer on the horizon as permission to begin. The pre-dawn light barely made it through the cracks in the blinds, weakly illuminating strips of floor and furniture.

Holmes didn't acknowledge Watson's presence outright, but Watson noted that some of the song selections were directed at him and his preferences. With his familiarity with Holmes' musical talents, he could discern a few moments of hesitation or where the notes were not quite true, but he thought Holmes did quite well considering how long he had been without practice.

Watson sat back against the settee and closed his eyes in enjoyment, passing some time immersed in the music, lingering on some edge between wakefulness and unconsciousness. He did not notice when the music ceased, and only opened his eyes when he felt Holmes' lips against his own. He smiled and buried a hand in Holmes' uncombed hair. "What time is it?" he asked groggily.

"Eight or so." Holmes kissed him again.

"We should get dressed so we don't give Mrs. Hudson a fright."

"Mrs. Hudson is an unflappable woman. You do not give her sufficient credit for putting up with us all these years."

Watson chuckled. "True, but even so. We shall have to dress for the day sometime."

"Why?" Holmes asked with a wicked smile, kneeling astride Watson and capturing his mouth in a messy kiss.

Watson was taken in for a moment, then remembered where they were. "But, Holmes-" he gasped, and Holmes covered Watson's mouth with his hand.

"The door is locked and I have already asked Mrs. Hudson to wait breakfast until we call."

Watson stared blankly at Holmes for a moment until the implication sank in. "Oh. _Oh_. Well, then." The hands pushing Holmes away now pulled him closer and Watson initiated the next lengthy kiss.

It didn't take long for Watson to decide that there was far too much fabric between him and Holmes. He set about pushing the dressing gown from Holmes' shoulders, and Holmes let it fall with no protest. Then Holmes tried to wrangle him out of his own dressing gown, which was more difficult as he was sitting on it, but between them they managed to extricate his arms from the sleeves.

Watson immediately put his freed arms to use feeling Holmes' body. When the thin nightshirt proved too frustrating a barrier, he took a shortcut and stroked up Holmes' legs until his hands were beneath the troublesome fabric. He kneaded Holmes' thighs, then slid upward to caress Holmes' buttocks. No, not caress. More like grope. He groped Holmes' arse and memorized Holmes' mouth, marveling at his good fortune.

Holmes was not idle; his hands were in constant motion over Watson's torso, stroking and petting and rubbing his thumbs over Watson's nipples. Watson nearly bucked Holmes off his lap when Holmes dragged his thumbnails over his nipples, then followed it with his tongue against the fabric. Holmes moved that amazing mouth to Watson's neck, sucking and nipping and licking at a spot near his collarbone while Watson panted and pulled Holmes as close as possible.

But no matter how he tried, the angles were all wrong and he couldn't achieve the contact he craved. He huffed in frustration, and Holmes chuckled against his neck. "Bed?"

That single word and the sultry tone in which it was said sent shivers down Watson's spine. "Yes," he gasped, then moaned when Holmes' fingers brushed over his groin as Holmes drew away in preparation to stand. He reluctantly released his hold on Holmes and watched hungrily as Holmes straightened in front of him, his cock visibly protruding against the front of his nightshirt.

Watson's throat and mouth went dry, and he stumbled when Holmes pulled him onto his feet. Holmes held him by the shoulders until he was steady, and though Watson yearned to feel Holmes up close, Holmes maintaining his distance for now was likely for the best. He hadn't the self-control to last for much longer, not when he'd waited so long already.

"Steady, Watson," Holmes murmured in his ear before releasing his shoulders and striding smoothly toward the bedroom.

Watson couldn't help it; he wished Holmes were naked so he could watch that delicious arse as Holmes crossed the room. Holmes glanced back at him when he reached the doorway, and Watson could've sworn he winked. Whether he winked or not, Holmes' nightshirt was definitely being tugged up as he disappeared into the room.

Watson couldn't move fast enough to follow him. As his reward, Holmes was stark naked, bending over as he rummaged in a drawer in the bedside table. Watson stopped dead in his tracks, taking in the sight of the bent Holmes in profile. It was almost too much to take, his arse waving in the air, his cock jutting proudly beneath him . . .

Holmes straightened, and Watson found he couldn't move, he was so overcome. To think he had dreamed of this so long, only to have it be this easy! It was more than he could fathom. Holmes stood before him; he leaned against Holmes' chest and Holmes held him gently, murmuring endearments and running a soothing hand up and down his back. Watson clung to Holmes, resting his cheek against Holmes' chest.

Once he'd composed himself somewhat and bit back the apology he wanted to make but that would likely kill the mood, Watson let his hands roam over Holmes' back and arse and kissed his collarbone. Holmes' caresses quickly ceased being soothing and instead pulled him closer, pressing their bodies together--finally, some contact!-- and nudging them both toward the bed.

When Watson backed into the mattress, Holmes eased him down to sit upon the edge. His hands cupped Watson's face, his thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Dear Watson," Holmes murmured fondly, pressing a kiss to Watson's forehead before speaking again. "You have been so good to me."

Then Holmes knelt between Watson's legs and his hands moved to Watson's thighs, at the edge of his nightshirt. "Will you permit me?" Holmes inquired as he nudged the shirt upward.

Throat too dry to speak, Watson nodded. Holmes quickly had the nightshirt pushed up as far as it would go, revealing Watson's achingly hard cock.

Holmes promptly took it into his mouth, and Watson nearly fainted. He managed not to, though he had to bite his lip, clutch the sheets, and try to look away from the glorious sight of his cock in Holmes' mouth. And no matter how he tried to last just a little bit longer, as soon as Holmes began to move his mouth around him, he hit his peak, climaxing long and hard and falling backward onto the bed in exhaustion immediately afterward.

A moment or two later he was aware that Holmes sat beside him on the bed, leaning back on one elbow so as to look at him. Watson started to apologize for the hasty end to the proceedings, but Holmes anticipated him. "Don't apologize, Watson. We shall have plenty of time to be slow about it later."

Later. Plenty of time. Now that was a wonderful thought. Watson smiled sleepily up at Holmes, then realized he had done nothing for Holmes. "Holmes, did you need-" Watson began, reaching toward Holmes.

His hand was on Holmes' hip when it and his question were halted by Holmes' gentle touch. "Thank you, that's not necessary."

Watson frowned. "You might have let me help you."

Holmes leaned over so his face was closer to Watson's. "You misunderstand," Holmes said, stroking Watson's cheek. "You were the cause. Watching and listening to you was all that it took."

Watson blushed. Holmes' expression softened and he kissed Watson tenderly. When he pulled away, Watson sat up to follow him. They sat side by side on the edge of the bed in silence until Watson ventured, "What now?"

Holmes glanced at him, then took one of Watson's hands in both of his. "I would dearly like to see you without this," he said, plucking at the sleeve of Watson's nightshirt. "But breakfast first, I think, so we are not interrupted by your stomach. Or mine."

He kissed Watson's hand and grinned at him; Watson smiled back and readily assented. Holmes patted his knee and rose, headed for the door. "I'll call down to Mrs. Hudson, then. You may stay here, if you like."

Watson was only too happy to do so, for he got a lovely eyeful of Holmes' arse, naked at last. Only when Holmes vanished from sight did Watson realize what was wrong with that picture. "Holmes! You can't let Mrs. Hudson see you like that."

"Why not?" Holmes reappeared in the doorway, tying the sash of his dressing gown. "Not to worry, Watson, I shan't give our landlady a fright."

"Of course," Watson said, feeling foolish for having forgotten their dressing gowns were still in the sitting room. Holmes tossed Watson's to him and vanished again; Watson heard the sitting room door open and Holmes speaking with Mrs. Hudson.

Watson fingered the fabric, then had an idea. He stripped off his nightshirt and donned the dressing gown, wrapping it securely about him and tying it closed. He stood in the bedroom doorway and watched as Holmes returned, bearing the breakfast tray. Holmes set it on the floor before the fire and beckoned to Watson as he retrieved a pair of pillows from the settee.

After Watson had settled on a pillow, Holmes stepped behind him and dangled the blindfold before his face. "I thought I would feed you, if you're amenable."

Watson was. With his vision curtailed, he had to rely on the sound of Holmes moving, the sound of his breathing, the rustle of his clothing to pinpoint where he was and what he was doing. Holmes settled himself on the other pillow, facing Watson, then there was the clinking of cutlery and dishes.

It seemed he waited forever before the first bite was brushed against his lips; he opened his mouth willingly. Sausage. The next forkful was eggs, most likely scrambled, and after that was a roasted potato. Holmes provided these in an apparently random order until Watson had to ask for a drink; tea, of course.

At this point Watson refused to have anything more until he heard Holmes eat some himself. Holmes laughed, but the sound of chewing and swallowing soon followed. Then Holmes was moving closer and his lips brushed Watson's, kissing him messily and passing him a bit of sausage.

When Holmes sat back, he brushed against Watson's thigh and the dressing gown slipped from his leg. Holmes' breath caught and he stroked the naked thigh with timid fingertips. "Oh, Watson, please tell me you are finished," he said, his voice uneven.

Watson shifted just enough to allow the dressing gown to slide a little further off his leg and grinned mischievously in Holmes' direction. A moment later he had an armful of detective simultaneously trying to pull the dressing gown from his body and kissing him quite senseless. The idea of divesting Holmes of his clothing fortunately occurred to him before his mind was completely filled with lust for the tall, thin man pushing him backwards onto the floor.

By the time Watson landed on his back, they were both naked--as far as he could tell, anyway, for the blindfold remained secure--and Holmes was atop him, having landed between his legs in a way that pressed their bodies together in a most satisfactory fashion. They kissed hungrily, now tasting of sausage and potatoes and eggs and tea, and Watson clutched at Holmes frantically.

Holmes began rocking against him, and Watson did what he could to mirror the movement, gasping as pleasure began to overwhelm him. He was confused when Holmes seemed to pull away from him, but understood a moment later when long fingers wrapped around his cock, bringing it flush against Holmes' hard length. Mere moments after that Holmes buried a cry in Watson's shoulder, breaking Watson's tenuous control and sending him to climax.

Watson felt pleasantly hazy afterward, surprisingly comfortable on the hard floor with all of Holmes' weight on top of him. He rested a hand on Holmes' back and sighed, closing his eyes behind the blindfold and wondering if he would greatly regret taking a nap then and there.

Holmes also sighed, idly stroking Watson's shoulder with the hand that wasn't still pinned between their bodies. "You must forgive me," he said, sounding mournful.

"For what?" Watson asked, startled out of his near-doze.

"For being unforgivably blind to my regard for you. It is inexcusable that I had to be blind before I could recognize how dear you are to me."

"But you did, and that is the important thing." Watson tightened his arms around Holmes in an embrace and rubbed his cheek against Holmes' hair.

"Yes, but we might have begun our relations some time ago if I had not been so damnably inattentive."

"You are certainly free to make it up to me, if you feel you must," Watson said, sliding his hand down to rest on Holmes' arse.

Holmes arched his hips into Watson and traced Watson's jawline with his tongue. "I just might," he said suggestively, then ended the conversation with a demanding kiss.


End file.
